


You and Me, and the Captain Makes Three

by townshend



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets dragged to a bar. Interestingly, he's not alone in drinking only water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and Me, and the Captain Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure plenty of other people have done this much, much better than I have, but here we have it!

It had been a bad idea to go to the bar that night.

John had assumed he could sneak out, pop in, and get a pint - it wouldn't typically be hard to sneak past Sherlock, considering he normally didn't even notice when John was leaving the house, even for extended holiday. But this time was different - when John came down from his room, Sherlock was sitting up on his feet on the armchair, hands steepled and deep in thought, brow creased and mouth fixed in a frown. John didn't say anything, going to where his coat was hanging and pulling it on. Sherlock didn't immediately notice the movement, and John thought he was in the clear, until he turned to head down the stairs and to the front door and Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"A roll of electrical tape and a garden hose when you come back."

John sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm not going to Tesco," he complained. "I'm going out for a drink."

Sherlock suddenly changed the position he was sitting in to something more normal, and then, before he'd even gotten a chance to settle, was up on his feet, long legs stretching. He kept his eyes on John, an eyebrow cocked. "I'll need a size 9 screwdriver as well, with a yellow handle, and we're also running low on tea."

John lifted a hand to his head and made an overdramatic show of massaging his temples. Sherlock frowned.

"You could come with me, you know," John complained, as if momentarily forgetting that he hadn't, in fact, been aiming to go out and get a drink instead of running to a store.

"I'm not interested in going to a bar."

"So you _do_ know that's where I'm going."

"I'm quite capable of hearing when you speak, John--" John chose that moment to let out a very loud bark of laughter, but Sherlock plowed through it, "--I just occasionally choose not to. Electrical tape. Garden hose. Size 9 screwdriver." He watched John carefully. "Can you remember that or do I need to write it down?"

"I'm going," John said, forcefully, "to the pub. You can join me if you like and we'll get your things afterwards. It might do you good to see the inside of a store for once in your life."

Sherlock's lips quirked like he had a comeback, which he undoubtedly did, but instead of externalising it, he merely went to the coat stand and began pulling on his jacket and scarf. John was almost surprised, but he figured maybe Sherlock was just getting bored of 221B. John knew he was.

The bar was pretty busy for a Tuesday night. There were a couple of muscly-looking guys at the bar itself, chatting up the tender, one in a tight white t-shirt and the other in a zipped-up red and black hoodie. Somebody in a beanie hat was playing piano in the corner, loudly. John didn't really recognise anybody there, but that wasn't exactly a surprise. Sherlock cast his gaze around, probably taking in the life story of everyone in the room.

"No free tables," John said, frowning. "Suppose we could sit at the bar, if you--"

Sherlock was already there. John sighed, joining him. There were a few free seats at the bar, and John managed not to have to sit next to anybody directly, but there was a man at the seat beside that one looking strangely out-of-time in a light blue button-up and a pair of braces. He was speaking rather loudly to a blonde girl beside him. He had an American accent, John noted. That was about as far as his deductive skills went, really.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was ahead of him.

"Man to your left is an army man with a dangerous job but does not fear for his life," he spoke, low, slipping out of his coat. "His accent is American but does not suggest a specific part of the country, meaning he likely moves around. His shoes are scuffed, but he wears a designer watch - he has the money to replace the boots but he holds on to them due to sentiment, or, more likely, he's too busy to pick up new ones. His neatly-trimmed hair and clean-shaven face suggest a level of vanity inconsistent with someone who just wouldn't care about the fact that they're too well-worn."

John sighed, shaking his head. Before he could tell Sherlock to knock it off, the man continued. "The clothes are strange - the weave of the cloth suggests older clothing but they aren't worn in a way consistent with the passage of time. The coat hanging on the back of the stool, now that's interesting - a British Army greatcoat, but not a model you're familiar with, they're not wearing greatcoats in Afghanistan. No, the buttons give it away even if the fabric and its cut didn't - the Second World War, no later than 1942 to be precise - those buttons were changed on models after that - but well-laundered and cared for. The third button on the left has been re-attached recently with great care, but not by this man. He's got someone else who cares for him."

"Sherlock," John protested.

"The woman beside him, interesting, she's from London - south, to be certain, although her--"

"Sherlock," John said, louder. "Honestly. Can't we just have a drink?"

Sherlock's gaze moved back to John and he pressed his lips together. John sighed in relief and waved down the barman.

"Canadian," Sherlock said, quickly, and John glowered at him. Sherlock almost smiled. "Gay," he added, under his breath.

"Hey." The tender turned towards them. "Sorry about that! Almost didn't see you guys come in."

"You _didn't_ see us come in," Sherlock protested. "Had John not gotten your attention we would have sat here all night until you closed up shop to return upstairs to your flat and German boyfriend."

John's face went in his hands. The tender looked surprised for a second before laughing. John could only thank god that the man had some kind of sense of humour.

"Okay. You two haven't been here before, have you? First drink's on the house. My treat."

"Very generous." Sherlock was scanning the bottles lined up on the wall behind the tender. "I'll just have water."

"Ah, lager for me, whatever's on tap."

"Got it." The tender made work of getting their drinks, soon setting the glass in front of John and a glass with ice and a bottle of Fiji in front of Sherlock. Sherlock cracked the bottle open and started pouring the liquid over the ice.

John went through his beer, taking a moment to smile towards Sherlock just a bit. Last night they'd been... for the first time, _intimate_ together, and that had been - surprising and amazing and beautiful and only slightly awkward and bizarre and confusing and somewhat difficult, and John had sometimes worried it would change their day-to-day but Sherlock wasn't acting any different about anything at all, which made it that much easier for John to keep from making any kind of embarrassing changes himself. The last thing he wanted to do was be clingy because they'd started shagging. Or... because they'd shagged once. The jury was out on whether it would become a Thing That Happened.

He'd run out of beer before he'd even realised he was getting near the end of the glass. As John stared down into the empty expanse, slowly setting it back on the bar, a heavy hand suddenly clapped onto his left shoulder.

"Dalton!" the American voice called. "This gorgeous man's empty. Get 'im another round, on me."

John blinked, looking up, to his right, where Sherlock was peering past him curiously, and then to his left. The American man was smiling, pretty widely, and by god, he was beautiful. John didn't normally think that about men, but there was something unworldly about the guy.

"Oh no, you've found someone else to flirt with," the girl said, sighing. She quickly smiled towards John and Sherlock, though, leaning forward in her seat and extending her hand. "Hello! I'm Rose Tyler. This beast here is Captain Jack Harkness."

"Pleasure to meet you," Jack said. John took Rose's hand, clasping it, and as soon as Rose let go, Jack had his hand over John's, warm and a hell of a strong handshake.

"Er, I'm John Watson." John pulled his hand away as soon as Jack released it, just in time for the new glass of beer. "This is Sherlock Holmes."

Rose blinked, surprised, and Jack seemed to gape at them. Finally, Rose asked, "But-- if you're Sherlock Holmes, then where's the hat?"

Sherlock sighed. John could only dissolve into laughter.

"So, Mr. Harkness," Sherlock said, loudly, talking over the space between them and the volume of the other patrons in the bar, "do you get all of your clothing from the 1940s or do you occasionally visit Carnaby Street?"

Jack looked surprised, but then smiled warmly again. John almost melted into it. He couldn't help it. There was really just something about him. "I spend most of my time in Cardiff, actually."

That seemed to actually throw Sherlock for a loop, and John sat back in his chair, sipping his beer, smug on behalf of Jack for really no reason at all.

"Well." Rose sighed, stretching arms over her head. "I best get back to the Doctor. Promised I wouldn't leave him alone all night."

"Ah, you're no fun." Jack checked his watch, but leaned back as Rose slipped from her chair, grinning towards her. She sighed, mocking irritation, but she couldn't help the obvious fondness exuding from her. She leaned down, pecking him with a kiss on the edge of his mouth.

"All you're getting out of me, Mr. Harkness," she said, pulling her jacket on.

"Best thing that's happened to me all night," he promised. She grinned a little wider.

"See you." She turned to John and Sherlock. "Nice to meet you, sorry to run so soon. Maybe I'll see you 'round here again sometime." She waved, and then turned and left, opening the door with a clink of the bell and stepping into the cool night.

"Rose Tyler," Jack said, fondly.

"Er, is she your girlfriend, then?" John asked, taking another sip of beer. Sherlock snorted, obviously already having figured the answer to that question. Jack blinked, looking surprised, then laughed.

"No. Nah, Rose has somebody for her already." He eyed John and Sherlock appreciatively. "And she's not the only one. You two are cute together. Anybody told you that before?"

John flushed - he could actually feel the blood colouring his cheeks - and began to stammer, just a little. Sherlock cleared his throat, taking over.

"My brother," he spoke, "countless times. Though he means it condescendingly. You're actually being serious, god help us all."

"We're not, ah-- we share a flat, really," John said, suddenly, and he didn't even know why because it was more than that but he was so used to defending himself against the media army that it had become second-nature any more, "we're friends."

Jack hummed to himself, thoughtfully. John noticed that he, like Sherlock, only had water in his glass, too. He suddenly felt a bit silly to be drinking - in a bar, of all places! "Well, that won't do."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and with just one word John could tell he was able to say something bitingly sarcastic, "do _please_ share with us your opinion on the potential direction of our relationship, we are simply dying to know what that could be."

Jack laughed. It was the second time Sherlock's grumpiness had garnered that response that night. He took another sip of his water, thinking, watching the two appreciatively. "I'm more of a 'showing' guy," he admitted. John was fairly certain his ears were now just as red as his cheeks. "How about we let John here finish his beer and we head back to that flat of yours to see what we can do?"

Sherlock sighed laboriously. "I do so love the places you take me, John," he complained.

"Er, sorry," John said, on instinct, although he couldn't help but admit that he liked the way Jack's fingers trailed up his arm, and-- oh, god, Jack's fingers were trailing up his _arm_. Sherlock had noticed, too, unsurprisingly, and John thought he saw his eyes flash.

He suddenly realised they wouldn't be making it to Tesco. As he gestured for his third beer and Sherlock started speaking to Jack a mile a minute, John knew something for sure - it was going to be a long, long night.


End file.
